


In which Gil has an unfortunate night out

by Overlord_Bethany



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Paris hijinks, Pre-Canon, do not try this at home, something resembling drunkenness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: Or, what really happened that one time in Paris.





	In which Gil has an unfortunate night out

Gil’s friends failed to notice any sign of trouble until he muttered an inventive stream of curses in three languages. He placed one fingertip against the side of his half-empty glass of absinthe and, as though it might explode, pushed it away across the tabletop. He scowled his careful, drunken scowl. 

“Gil…?” Colette watched the glass scoot, watched the sloshing of the liquid within. 

“You’ve only had the one,” Wooster said, echoing Colette’s concern. 

“S'bad,” Gil said, still scowling at the absinthe. He struggled for words, but when Wooster reached for the glass, Gil could catch his wrist easily enough. “You’ll die. Poison,” he managed at last, and congratulated himself for finding the right word. The world had gone a funny blue color around the edges, but he could not trouble himself about. “Psytha— Scithi—” Unable to name his tormentor, Gil cursed again and fell silent. 

Wooster edged closer, lowered his voice. “Are you…? What do you need?”

No, he was not dying, thanks to his father’s precautions. “Sodium bicarb, activated charcoal, ester of salvia, and a two hour nap,” Gil said easily enough. But they still had work to do. 

“Go,” Colette told him, as though reading his thoughts. “We’ll catch him.”

Despite his misgivings, Gil pushed himself to his feet and tottered out into the busy Paris evening. What else could he do? He was no use to anyone in his current state. 

He managed well enough for about a block, narrowly avoiding two fashionable ladies before he stumbled on the curb and fell face-first against a crushed velvet waistcoat. Slurring an apology, he peered upward. Tarvek Sturmvoraus. Of course it was. 

“You—!” Tarvek made to brush off his waistcoat, but he only succeeded at dusting the backs of Gil’s hands. “Isn’t it a bit early to be this drunk?”

Not drunk. Also none of your business. Still standing at an angle, Gil squinted upward. “You… didn’t set a bunch of ‘sploding turtles on th’ Seine, did you? Nah,” he said before Tarvek could object. “Not your style. You do… fine mechanicals.” Gil waggled his fingers too close to Tarvek’s face. 

“Stop that.”

Yes, stop that. Gil stared in fascination as Tarvek seized the offending fingers and squeezed until they stilled. He barely noticed Tarvek asking him if his friends planned to take him home. “C'n man'ge,” Gil objected, perfectly aware that he lost a few more vowels every minute he delayed. 

“I am unconvinced.” Tarvek’s hands had moved to grip Gil by the arms, thumbs pressing inward in a way that could not be structural. Tilting his head for a better view—in odd tones of blue—Gil peered at him. Tarvek scowled. “You know a Spark of your ability is more than a public nuisance in this state. You’re a hazard. You think the Master of Paris would be pleased to see you like this?”

Gil might have argued against the unfairness of the lecture, but at that moment a finger jabbed him in the back of the head. “Cap'n,” he said, relieved to have someone he could lean on for the walk home. 

Tarvek glared at them as they wobbled away into the night.


End file.
